We turned up to a place called Coombe Farm, a slice of nowhere near Addiscombe, at an earlier-than-usual time of 11:45, and immediately found ourselves presented with three distinct problems.
1) Umar Iqbal’s car tyre had been mutilated somehow, which understandably caused the man some stress and hampered travel arrangements. 2) The clubhouse looked like the set of a horror film: there was no drinking water and actual berries were growing above the urinal. In my state of hunger and dehydration and usual pre-game mania, it took a few stern words from Leon Parks to convince me to not eat them and settle for a mushy royal gala apple instead.
3) The pitch we were meant to be playing on looked virtually indistinguishable from the outfield surrounding it. The thing was green and mushy and scary to look at. There was no knowing how it would play. I could almost see myself being folded in half by some vicious 50mph daisy-cutter bowled by a bloke with no hair. Thankfully, that potential reality would be postponed for a couple hours at least, as Matt Spencer won the toss and elected to bowl. He started with the reliable combo of Damon Greeney and Lewis Wilby, and for the first 10 overs, Mallu found themselves ground into the dirt, struggling to find any gaps.

Bowling from what we called the Damon Greeney End, Greeney, making his 50th appearance for the Plough, delivered his typical eight-over spell of unapologetic line and length, forcing all kinds of false shots and sharp intakes of breath from his fellow Ploughmen. It seemed only right that he took the first wicket of the day, caught by keeper Michael Ainslie, who proceeded to lie on the ground injured while the rest of us gave him belly rubs, like you would a labrador. Next time any of you see Ainslie, please do follow Plough policy and rub his belly accordingly, in a clockwise direction. Thank you.
From the other end, Wilby produced some truly violent deliveries, removing their other opener — caught by Iqbal, somewhat atoning for his scandalous drop off Greeney a week earlier. They hooped and zipped and regularly popped up, flying right over the batter’s head on several occasions. The man had his fellow Plough frothing at the mouth, snarling like hyenas, but it made me nervous. The way the ball popped off a good length haunted me. I suspect it haunted Chris Butlin, too. Finding rhythm on this thing would be difficult.

At 31-2 after 10 overs, Plough were firmly on top. A couple more wickets and Mallu would be on their knees. Sadly their No.3 and No.4 counterpunched, taking advantage of a drop from Leo Nieboer at point, hitting almost exclusively in the V. They didn’t hit fours — they biffed them. That’s the only word to describe what those blokes were doing, which to me seemed like some kind of sorcery — a confounding of everything I know about batting in those first 20 overs.

After drinks and a demand from the skipper to get loud, really loud, John Walton — returning from driving all the way to Bulgaria for ‘business’ reasons that he didn’t really explain — broke the deadlock, trapping their No.3 dead in front. His appeal to the umpire was so violent that he ended up about three centimetres from his face, veins visibly bursting out of his head, and I imagine the only reason the umpire eventually raised his finger was the simple fact that he may have had his intestines rearranged if he hadn’t.

At the other end, Spencer saw a totally plumb LBW shout turned down. He looked exasperated by the decision, despondent even, but he used that anger to produce another ball 10 minutes later that perfectly clipped the top of off stump, bringing the score to 116-4 with 13 overs to go.

The game swung back and forth: Benny Cobbett came on and toyed with their No.6, not unlike a mother cat goading her kitten to belt away, forcing a very satisfying caught and bowled. He stood there, ball in hand, and gave the batter a grin that seemed to say: “It’s okay, babes. Nets Daddy’s here. We’ll work on that. Now, f&%k off.” A couple overs later, Spencer put down an easy chance off the bowling off Cobbett, the next ball going for six. “That’s cricket, man,” I said to him, his eyeballs wallowing in a sea of anguish. “No, it’s not,” he fired back.

Mallu continued to biff. Down the ground they went. Good balls went; bad balls went even further. Umar came on to stem the tide and drew the most obvious nick I’ve ever heard — very very audible from my spot at deep cover — only for the umpire to stand there motionless, like some penguin adrift on an iceberg. The next ball, Umar trapped him LBW. Not given. And, yes, it looked DEAD from deep cover as well. Then he went for four. By the end of the over, he looked worse than his car’s tyre. A flurry of late wickets helped Plough’s cause, Umar claiming two, but their final score of 216 felt a little on the high side. 20 too many. The batters would need to start strongly, set a platform.

Heading out to the middle, Butlin stunned me with how calm he was. That moment right before the first ball, for me, is nothing short of abject terror. Standing there waiting for the field to sort itself out, I can barely speak. I can hear the blood behind my eyeballs. And here was Butlin, cheerfully chatting away, rather accurately describing Mallu’s routine of locking hands and shouting “MALLU” at once as a “major ick”.

He started in similarly calm fashion, stroking one of his first balls sumptuously through cover, making me think, from the other end, that maybe batting out here was easy. It wasn’t. Their left-armed opening bowler seemed to exclusively bowl either wides or absolute pearlers. The chat was incessant; Mallu appeared to have eight captains, talking all at once, moving fields every ball, bowlers going round and over and then round again. It was hot and chaotic and unenjoyable. Butlin found himself pinned by one of those aforementioned pearlers, Parks having little choice but to trigger his mate, going against the express instructions of our dear Club Captain and Lord and Savior, Liam Gray.

Out came Umar Iqbal, who looked elegant, stroking a couple of lovely boundaries and helping to take Plough from 18-1 to 42-1 rather quickly. He saw off the opening bowlers with Nieboer and then, in classic cricket fashion, spooned the first ball of the first-changer to mid-wicket.

Mallu’s chat intensified: wides followed by peaches followed by more wides and more indecipherable words from every corner. Overs dragged like dead animals. Nieboer, on 6 (33), had started to feel vaguely comfortable by the 13th over, only for a good length ball to pop up and hit his glove, flying straight to slip, like he’d feared all day, ever since seeing Wilby bowl from that end and watching the pink ball pop like some Barbie-inspired bouncing betty.

Plough fought back. Parks and Chris McCallister came together for some much needed Tall and Sexy Runs, doing some biffing of their own, making good use of those lanky elegant levers poking out of their shoulders. Especially McCallister. He hits impeccably well in the V, which seemed to be the way to go here, the ball making a particularly arousing “CRACK” when it connected with his bat. The pair took Plough from 49-3 to 116-3, keeping the boys alive, keeping us on the sidelines fizzing, demanding more. Sadly things went downhill from there. Parks holed out trying to push the game along, and McCallister found himself agonisingly run out with a direct hit on 49, just shy of his maiden Plough fifty. My mouth actually dropped. It was the kick in the dick we precisely didn’t need (not that anyone ever needs one, to be honest, except in very special circumstances). McCallister was understandably upset, but on evidence given so far, he shouldn’t have to wait too long to join Simon Crane’s Plough 50 club. This guy can play.

As the game approached its climax, batting became more desperate, the run rate going from 7 RPO to over 11. It had that familiar stench of the doomed chase: wickets falling regularly, blokes playing and missing, packed boundaries making fours and sixes largely impossible. On the sidelines, we were getting sulky, sweary. I said a naughty word, and Spencer had to remind us to not curse, due to the presence of a small child sat behind us.
“F%&king flies everywhere,” Ainslie then muttered, seconds later. I really do love this club sometimes.

By the last over, Plough needed 25, Wilby and Walton at the crease — courtesy of Mallu being docked 18 penalty runs on account of their horrendous over rates and relentless on-field pep rallies. It wasn’t to be: Umar triggered Walton, Greeney was run out (a horribly jarring sight, like seeing your dad be audited), and that was the game. Mallu went nuts. We went to the pub, where Butlin and I agreed that all opening batters who insist on taking the first ball (myself, McGurn, Hanzi, Butlin) were all bottoms at heart. Taking this school of thought further, we concluded that all of us were bottoms, dirty masochists, for playing this damn sport.

Of this I am certain, if nothing else. Imagine leaving your cosy bed on a Saturday after minimal sleep and travelling to deep Croydon, spending three hours in the dirt, nearly getting poisoned by toilet berries, grinding out six runs in 60 minutes, being dismissed by a freak ball, and then actually looking forward to doing it all again next week (if selected). I need help. We all do.

Match report produced by Leo Nieboer